Legacy
by Glisseo
Summary: "He always knew this day would come, right from the first toy broom at age one ..." The famous Mr Potter attends his son's first professional Quidditch match.


He's nervous, though he's trying not to show it. His wife, gripping his hand tightly, knows – but she's nervous too, of course. This is huge.

He always knew this day would come, right from the first toy broom at age one, and the skill displayed even then, but it's still hard to believe that this is _happening_, as a result of all those one-on-one games in the back garden. It feels extraordinarily good to know that he's had a hand in this – although it's _not _due to nepotism, whatever some people are saying. Sometimes, he wishes he wasn't who he is: he could have done without the reporters at the foot of the stands, for instance, wanting to know how he feels about today. He's just a proud parent, wanting to support his kid – is that too much to ask?

His _kid. _Oh God, he is still a kid. His son. He can picture him now, waiting: broom in hand, hair even untidier than usual because he'll have been running his hands through it, green eyes bright with anticipation. One of the many things they share is a deep, intense love for this sport; he couldn't count the number of times over the years that they've both stood here, in the top box, both too full of adrenaline to sit, with Omnioculars at the ready, even though their sharp eyes caught everything. He smiles at the memories, he and his son: he has been so unbelievably lucky.

"Any minute now," his wife murmurs, glancing at her watch. She knows this process as well as he does; she's been here a hundred times before. "I can hardly bear to watch."  
"It's terrifying," he agrees, and then they both jump, already on edge, as a cacophony of noise louder than the spectators hits their ears: his best mate and family, piling into the box draped in navy blue scarves and clutching homemade banners.  
"You're late, it's almost time!"  
"It was those damn reporters. You didn't think I'd miss this, did you?"  
The answer to that, of course, is 'no', because who would want to miss this? Surely everybody his son knows must be here watching, or else listening on the wireless. This match has been talked about for weeks, with United's newest player labelled as 'the one to watch' in all the papers and magazines. "It's in the genes," a pundit had said on the radio just the other day. "If he's got even half his father's talent he'll still be the best player Puddlemere has seen for many years."

The expectations sitting on his son's young shoulders are enormous, but not overestimated. He _is _something special, he will go down in history – this match, even, will go down in history, his first professional match, where he showed the world what he's got, showed everyone that he is someone on his own, not just his father's son.

And then it's happening – fourteen players are marching out onto the pitch, brooms over their shoulders, seven in purple, seven in navy blue, the commentator's voice delivering the names ("… and _Potter!_") to screams and whoops and thunderous applause.  
The captains shake hands, the whistle blows, the balls are released and they're off, the Quaffle whizzing through the air at top speed – Puddlemere in possession, intercepted by Howard of Portree, but then Puddlemere's Chasers are slinging the ball back and forth as if it were weightless, zooming towards the goalposts – _goal! _It's spectacular, even to the expert eye, and horrifying to watch – he winces as his son, swooping through the air like he'd never left it, narrowly dodges a Bludger – but he's off again next second, circling the pitch, eagle eyes scanning the skies for his prey. _Goal, goal, _and _goal _again for Puddlemere, then for Portree, and again, but Puddlemere have the edge, their Chasers have the polish, their Keeper has the deftness and determination of a World Cup standard – Portree don't stand a chance, and certainly not when the Snitch glints in the far corner of the stadium, caught by the sun: their Seeker is fast, but Puddlemere's is lightning. In record time, he has the Snitch captured in his fist, arm raised high above his head, face creased in the victory of a lifetime, and the crowd goes wild for Harry Potter, the youngest, the best they've ever seen, and in the top box, his father sobs unashamedly.

James Potter is a household name, a World Cup winner, the best Chaser in the league at the time of his retirement, when he became the manager of his team, the Tutshill Tornados. He is respected the world over and loved for his famously cheeky, witty manner of speaking, never afraid to speak his mind; he is, to some, a god of sorts, but he is also a parent, and today he is overwhelmed by the pride and love he has for his son, his eighteen year old baby who now has the world at his feet. James had thought that the best feeling in the world was scoring the winning goal for England in the World Cup, up until the birth of his son. Now, he wonders if that feeling will one day be matched by watching Harry capture the Snitch for England in the World Cup. He has a feeling that it just might.

"Come on," says Lily, dragging him away from the image of his son holding the Cup and out of the box, which is now empty.  
"Where did Sirius go?" James asks, as Lily expertly manoeuvres the stairs, dodging fans who gape at James.  
"Home, they have to put the little ones down for their nap – but he said he'll see us at the pub later, he wants to see Harry. He said to pinch you for daydreaming, too," she adds, and briefly does just that.  
James barely notices; he feels like he could take a Bludger to the face at this point and not even flinch. His son! _His son! _All around, as they descend the staircase, people are talking, talking about Harry – "what a catch! He's brilliant!" "More than brilliant. I've never seen anything like it!" _  
His son. _

At the bottom of the stairs, they are bombarded by reporters. "Mr Potter! How do you feel about your son's victory?"  
"Mr Potter, Mr Potter, over here – is it true that you cried when your son caught the Snitch?"  
"Mr Potter! What do you have to say to the comments that you're the only reason Harry got a shot at – ouch!"

The reporter stumbles backwards, rubbing at an angry red mark on his hand. "Something stung me!"  
"Yeah," mutters Lily, hustling James past the crowds, "_something_."  
They're able to make their way around to the back entrance of the changing rooms, where there are yet more reporters crowded around the fence, but even as Lily raises her wand, Harry emerges, no longer in his navy blue robes but wearing the same elated, dazed grin he wore as he held the Snitch, which widens as he spots his parents. He and James meet in the middle: the hug James gives him nearly knocks him off his feet, but he laughs – they both laugh, James wildly, gripping his son tightly, ruffling his hair, trying to convey just how proud he is.  
"Gerroff," says Harry eventually, when hugging your father in front of reporters becomes too much for an eighteen year old to stand, but as James releases him, he smiles again and says, "thanks, Dad. For everything," and James has to hug him again: his son, his wonderful, amazing, gifted son, who has made him prouder and happier than he ever imagined possible.

"You were brilliant, sunshine," Lily says as James and Harry break apart again, her eyes bright with emotion. "Honestly fantastic."  
"I know," says Harry, grinning at her as she kisses his cheek. "You two are embarrassing me, you know …"  
"Don't care," says James matter-of-factly, pressing a kiss to the top of his son's head. "We want the world to know that we love you. Deal with it."  
Harry shakes his head, and then submits for a moment.  
"I'm glad you were here."  
"Are you kidding?" says James. "We're your _parents_. You are our phenomenally talented, exceptionally gifted, marvel of a son –"  
"Stop!" Harry insists forcefully, trying not to smile.  
"- and we will be at every single match you play in, like it or not. Crying and hugging you and making you wish you didn't have parents."  
"Great," says Harry, rolling his eyes. He is, James realises, just a boy, still – a lanky teenager, awkward around girls. But he has something special: this is a boy who will be world famous within months, who will have his name in every newspaper in Britain, who will be fawned over and talked about and never forgotten – and even when he is grown up, perhaps running his own team, he will still be, always be, James's boy.


End file.
